


Almost Disjoint Sets

by nogoaway



Series: Tattoo AU [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Sensory Deprivation, neurodivergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 15:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5630917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I thought you didn't buy oranges for yourself." North folds his arms across his chest. "Because of infinite triangles and utility."</i>
</p>
<p>Or, York and North are Different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Disjoint Sets

_Click._

North doesn't pay it any mind at first. He's busy dealing with the room, and his credit card information, and there's even a Veteran's discount, which needs his service number because who would believe he's old enough to qualify (he can't find a pen. The host hands him one. North smiles, thanks him. Remembers to hand it back, cap on properly. A million little things.)

_Tap. Tap._

York's swaying a little next to him, rocking up on his toes and back down. The steel-toed boots tap. _Tap_. Something in his pocket, jingling against spare change (York is always flush with spare change, most of it pennies. North's trying to convince him to at least get a container for them, so North can roll them up when he gets too many, take them to the bank. _Who are you, my dad? Pennies in the bank!_ It adds up, York. _Pennies! One one hundredths of a soda._ )

The host gives him a key card. Two key cards. They're blank white and don't have the room number on them anywhere. 8-024. He'll have to remember. Eight times three is twenty four. There. They go into his front pocket, away from his phone. Something about magnetic strips and phones, he doesn't know whether it's true any more. You'd think they'd fix that, about cell phones. But better to be safe. Thanks the clerk. Smiles. Shoulders his bag.

_Click tap. Click tap tap click. Click._

York jangles all the way to the elevator, pushes the call button with his knee, hands still shifting in baggy cargo pockets.

_Click click. Click._

A woman gets on after them, elderly. North makes room automatically, shoving his bag into the corner and reaching an arm out to hold the door. York's already holding it, but with his body. York doesn't think about how a posture like that could be intimidating to a smaller, older woman. North smiles at her. She smiles back.

_Tap tap click. Click._

The woman gets off on floor three. They stop at four, and then five, but there's no one on the other side of the doors. York is tapping his knuckles on the wall panels, now, one hand still moving in his pocket. It's his lighter. That's what's clicking, in with the pennies. North frowns.

"Do you need a smoke?" The building's non-smoking. York had said that would be fine. He's been working on quitting for months now, and while cold turkey didn't work out North hasn't seen him light up more than twice this whole week. Has stopped expecting it, stopped adding ten minute buffers to his plans for York to wander off into an alcove or a park or a car lot.

"Nah." _Click._

"You're-- you _seem_ agitated." North clenches his jaw. He's trying to stop doing that. Didn't even know it was a thing he did, until he went to a session with York and Dr. Grey. North tells York how he feels, apparently. Apparently that's bad.

"Just tired," York says, and _tap tap tap_. He doesn't sound tired. He sounds wired.

The doors ding open on floor eight, and York lunges out into the hall, looking both ways before heading down the wrong one. North catches him by the shoulder before he can get too far.

"This way."

York grins up at him, sheepish. "Eh, it was fifty-fifty."

North has to stop him from walking past the room, too, and when he finally closes the door behind them York gets right to pacing between the bed and the window without even taking his backpack off.

North sets his bag down on the bed. York sits down next to the duffel, heavily. His arm brushes North's. He's radiating anxiety and fatigue. He keeps staring at the wall. It takes North a second to realize that it's not just the wall. It's the air vent. It's humming. Loudly. North hadn't even noticed.

Now that he thinks about it, it's not just the hotel that's loud. The whole day has been loud; the convention center was a lot even for North-- people, smells, color and noise, constant and deafening. But York had been fine. More than fine. York had been having a swell time, as far as North could tell. He hadn't started tapping until halfway through the cab ride, when North and the driver (Gabriel, also a vet. Gulf war. Wife, two daughters. Eight and ten. Both liked that new Disney movie, the one South took Teddy to last month) had been talking over the radio (Mets game, he thinks; North mostly ignored it), and then they were in the lobby waiting in line for the desk with three other families (North let them go first, of course, they looked tired), and York had made a face at the screaming toddler and North had elbowed him lightly for being rude.

Even now he can hear the conversation one room over, the thump of footsteps in the room below. North tunes out that kind of thing as easy as breathing, but he's learned that York doesn't, or can't. York gets overwhelmed, sometimes, even by good and exciting things, like the convention that he looked forward to for months--

That he's clearly no longer enjoying. North watches him fumble with his bootlaces on the end of the bed, flustered and frustrated.

"Hey," he says, and waits for York to yank the left boot off, waits for York to turn towards him. Focus on him. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Uh." York kicks off the right boot, after a few false starts. "Yeah, okay."

"Go take a shower, all right?"

"You telling me I stink?" York swivels on his ass on the bedspread, pulling the comforter untucked and sending pillows tumbling askew, and stretches his socked feet out towards North, wiggling his toes. "Smell my feet."

North swallows his laugh. "No. I'm gonna go for a walk real quick. Take a shower and try to calm down, all right?"

York gives him an odd look, but doesn't protest. North pats his back pocket to make sure his wallet is still there, and sets the second key-card on the bedside table. "I'll be back in a little bit." He considers pulling his coat back on, but figures it's not far enough to bother.

"You're gonna go for a walk," York repeats. "While I shower."

"Humor me," North tells him, and shuts the door behind himself before he manages to turn this into an argument.

He's halfway down the stairwell (elevator too slow, he's on a mission) when he realizes that he really has no idea whether what he's doing is any kind of a good plan. If it's even a plan at all. Maybe York will laugh him out of the room. (That hasn't happened yet, but North's always waiting for it.) Maybe (probably) this will become next week's subject of dissection on Dr. Grey's couch.

All he can do is try his best at this, North reminds himself. Trust his intuition. Rule number one: not everything works for everyone, and even when something works for someone, it doesn't always work all the time.

Silence works for York, sometimes. And warmth, and safety, and security. When he's anxious, he likes being bound, held tight. Restricted. Limited. He likes the world around him to be small and dark. Like the back room of his studio. Clean. Quiet. Unchanging.

North would get bored in a place like that, if he didn't have York with him. York, whose mind and hands make infinite expanding fractals; patterns, concepts, waves and clouds and geometric shapes that link and weave together on paper, on skin, in air-- always changing. Always growing. Always spiraling out and back and out again in every conceivable direction.

He gets it. How too much of that could make a person anxious, unhappy, even a little crazy. Too much input.

The pharmacy is as loud and bright at midnight as it is at any other hour. Less people; North's one of the sad few browsing through the medicine and personal care aisles: a middle-aged man in blue scrubs comparing packets of disposable razors, a younger woman with messy hair and tired eyes swimming in a grey sweatshirt between concealer and blush, a pair of teenage girls chatting in the family planning section. A bearded man with a beanie pulled down low over his eyes is staring motionlessly into the freezer, paralyzed by the hum of florescent everything.

North hears it all, when he thinks about it. But it takes real concentration. The man in scrubs is breathing oddly, like there's something wet in his throat. The teenagers laugh and hit a high pitch that grates. Outside the highway is roaring. A constant hum from the vents, the freezer, the lights, the Top 40 pop station piped through bad speakers.

Earplugs and face masks are hidden under the contact lens care section. North knows what kind he wants-- soft foam plugs. He used them a lot during boot camp, where you couldn't avoid getting stuck with snorers. They weren't physically uncomfortable, just made him feel like he was underwater. He could hear his own breathing, his own heartbeat. Just that. No one else's. It felt odd to him. He only ever bought the one pack. Didn't need them after, when he worked alone. Needed to hear everything important, even asleep. But lots of grunts wore versions with removable caps during patrol, because of weapons fire.

The ear plugs are cheap. He takes a face mask, too, plain black with an elastic strap. He's blindfolded York with ties before, and he's sure there's something suitable in his bag, but he'd rather not have York associate what he's trying tonight with their more adventurous hobbies.

This isn't about sex.

The bathroom door is closed when North gets back, and York is nowhere to be seen. The second key-card is still on the bed-side table, though, so North takes the opportunity to change into his sweatpants and find his book, tucked away in the bottom of the bag. _Moby Dick_. He's not very far through; he's enjoying the book, but he's a slow reader, especially with older styles. Sometimes he has to reread a sentence a few times to get the proper sense of it. Sometimes a sentence is really nice, and he rereads it just to read it again.

The bathroom door creaks open and York stumbles back into the room, toweling his hair off. He looks surprised to see North, blinks at him owlishly.

"Long shower," North says, and then mentally kicks himself. Sometimes everything he says comes out like a criticism, when he thinks about it.

York doesn't seem to take it that way. "Not my water bill." He flops down on the end of the bed, runs the towel down his stomach and legs. He's damp, probably dripping on the comforter. North doesn't say anything. "You have a nice, uh. Nice walk?"

North dog-ears the bottom of the page (he made it through a few paragraphs, at least), and sets Melville on the bedside table. "Yes. Come here, please."

York cranes his neck over his shoulder to stare at him. Seems to think about it. Then he shrugs, tosses the towel onto the floor (North doesn't say anything), and crawls up the bed. "Okay."

North pulls the covers back. "In," he says, and does the same on his side, wiggling down under the comforter and what feels like three separate blankets and sheets.

York curls up next to him almost immediately. He's warm and slightly damp, but still antsy. Keeps rolling over onto his back, his side, his back again. Thumps his head into the pillow so hard North wants to wince. Then he's back to staring at the incessantly humming air vent.

York's hands are working under the sheets, still twitching, like he's missing the lighter.

"I got you something," North says, and reaches over into the bedside table to take the face mask out of its packaging. "Well, a few things."

"Huh," York says. "Um."

"Have you ever worn ear plugs?" North asks him, tearing open the box and then parting the ziplock bag they come in. "To help you sleep?"

York frowns at him. Thumps his hands against his own thighs. "Uh, no?"

"But noises bother you." North leans back against the headboard. "I used them in Basic. They work, you know."

"Can't," York says, after a moment. He shrugs, a little jerkily. "Can't, I-- what if I need to hear something, like, what if there's a fire?"

"You'd hear a fire alarm," North assures him, trying to keep the dryness to a minimum.

"Or if someone broke in, or--"

North's undecided on whether he should wait York out, or draw a line. York's really creative when it comes to making excuses for why he can't take care of himself. Can't take a sick day, too busy. Can't buy healthy food or clothes that last, too expensive, he knows how to sew up his own gloves well enough. Can't crank the thermostat up in winter or adjust the hot water heater, it's too much bother when he can just put on a sweater and be fine, thanks. The only thing York consistently does for his own benefit is going to therapy, and North's still not entirely convinced that the weekly sessions with Dr. Grey aren't just another exercise in mental self-flagellation. Everything's always well enough, with York. He's always _surviving_. Living well is probably too scary.

"I just. I can sleep. It's fine. Let's sleep."

"The noise is bothering you," North repeats, and taps him lightly on the chest, just to get his attention back. "It's bothered you all day, hasn't it?"

"I should be better at this."

North frowns. "Sorry?"

"I should-- it bothers me, sure, new places bother me, people bother me, fucking toddlers--"

North, once again, restrains himself.

"But that's all normal life shit, I should be better at dealing, you know?" He twists under the sheets, clearly uncomfortable. "What fucking good am I if I can't go to a god damn convention for my fucking craft, Jesus. Sit in a fucking cab."

"I found the convention center loud and a little tiring, actually," North says, with complete honesty. "I think anyone would."

"Ugh." York grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. "It's not-- some people _work_ in places like that, you know? All day, every day. _They're_ fine."

"Maybe," North concedes. "They're not you, though."

"Yeah," York laughs. "Cause _I'm_ so fucking special."

"Don't." York always sounds so vicious, when he says things like that; North knows exactly where he gets it from. Heard it more than a few times, when he spent evenings after school at York's house. It's only since York's mother passed away that he started saying it himself, though. "People are different. That's okay."

York lifts one hand far enough away to give North a 'really?' look. The 'you sound like a greeting card' look. Too bad. North knows he's right.

"It's too much input," he says, trying to find a way to explain that will make sense to York. Will seem valid. "You're sensitive."

York huffs a laugh. "Dude. I am a lot of things, but _that_ is not-- you are literally _always_ complaining--"

North rolls his eyes. "To stimuli. I'd never accuse you of being sensitive to other people's feelings." Even though York can be, sometimes. At least, North's chosen to believe that York's occasional lapses into emotional competency are intentional. "So I had an idea."

York chews on his lower lip. "Oh." Glances over at North's open hand on his knee, where he's still holding out the ear plugs.

"I'm right here," North reminds him. "I can hear fine. I won't let anything happen."

"Not gonna leave me in a burning hotel?" York quirks a grin. "Chivalrous."

"Not unless you really piss me off," North jokes. "Here." He passes the face mask over, figuring that's more familiar and thus less threatening. "I'm gonna read for a while, so I need the light on."

York takes the mask, snaps the elastic band a few times between his fingers. North just waits, and sure enough, York slides the thing on over his head after a moment, fiddles with the arrangement of it.

"Dark," he mumbles, and tucks his hands behind his head. "Huh."

"Mmm." North trails his fingertips from York's shoulder up along his neck to his left ear-- not teasing, just trying not to startle him. "I'm gonna put these in, okay?"

York shrugs. Swallows. "Uh. Sure, whatever."

North would have preferred more enthusiastic consent, but whatever. It'll work, or it won't. He rolls the end of one earplug between his thumb and forefinger, pinching it into a point, and gently slides it into York's ear canal, pulling back the shell a little as he does.

York's nose scrunches up, but quickly settles. North tips his head to the side with a finger on his chin, and inserts the other earplug on his right. Then he backs off, reaches for his book, and watches.

York's quiet, for a good minute. Then he hums, softly. He hums again, louder. He's testing. North watches his brow furrow below the mask, and then York flips himself over onto his stomach and grabs onto one of the pillows, burying his face in it with a muffled grunt.

North smiles. Opens Melville up to his folded page, and finds his place. He gets through the end of that page and the next one before York's shoulder bumps into his hip. North looks down at where he's burrowed into the blankets, curled bodily around the pillow. The shoulder nudges North again, and he'd pass it off as accidental except York's breathing hasn't slowed into sleep yet.

North hasn't been touching him, because he knows from personal experience that losing sight and hearing puts the rest of his senses in overdrive. But York's frowning again, so he reaches down with his right hand to toy with the ends of York's hair, tucking stray damp spikes of it back behind his ear.

York mumbles something into the pillow, curls even tighter. North lets his fingers fan out, cards them though York's hair from his brow to the nape of his neck. York puts up a lot of fuss about his hair, but when it's night time and he's rinsed the gel out of it he loves to have it played with. He won't admit it, of course, but even now he's pushing his head up in increments into North's hand, rubbing his scalp against North's open palm.

"Good boy," he murmurs, mostly because York can't hear him. But he means it.

York's legs twitch under the sheets, short jerks like they do when he's just falling into sleep, or straight into dreaming. North sets the book down on his knee. He's distracted, now, watching York's face as his brow smooths out and his mouth falls open slightly, watching York's arms go a little slack around the pillow and his breathing turn deep and slow.

North swallows around the lump in his throat. It worked. He hadn't really-- he'd been bracing himself for an argument, if not outright failure to get York to even try, because what did North know anyway, about anything--

_Do not,_ he tells himself, _under any circumstances, tell him you told him so._ It makes him grin a little, quietly giddy. Relieved.

He wishes York would take better care of himself. Wishes that York liked himself enough to make an effort to. But North also loves this, secretly. That he can make things better, even if it's only in little ways. For a little while. It makes him feel-- competent.

York doesn't need him. York always gets by. But North knows he does better when North's around. And North--

North needs him. North needs _someone_ , all the time, or he starts to get antsy. Irritable. Mean. That's what happened when South moved out, anyway. North was topping the charts in sniper training, working with some of the best in the business at a very young age, holding the power of life and death in his hands, and he had felt completely, utterly useless. Incompetent.

North slowly inches down under the covers onto his side, sliding his arm over York's shoulders. He doesn't want to wake him, just _needs_ , all of sudden-- but York rolls over into him, face to North's neck like a heat seeking missile. North swallows. Lets his arm settle down bit by bit, until he can rest his hand on York's hip, over bark and branches. York makes a snuffling noise into North's chest, and the fabric of the face mask glides over his skin.

"Is that bad?" He whispers, into York's hair. It smells like the complimentary hotel shampoo, vanilla and citrus. Still slightly damp, cool against his lips. "Do you think? Does she think that's bad?"

Because North does care what Dr. Emily Grey thinks, and not just because she has the power to put ideas in York's head. Because sometimes North wonders, too, if there's something wrong with him. Why else would he need this the way he does? It's not like movies for him-- meet someone, fall in love with them, marry them. York is his best friend. But he doesn't love York like movie married people, who kiss over the dishes or the television. He loves York when York gives him things-- trust, submission. Access. He loves York when York is brought low. And he loves when York hurts him. When York does things he doesn't necessarily get off on, just because North asks him to.

He loves York shaking and hurting and on an edge. For those moments when he's _everything_ to York. More than loves. He needs that. To be the only thing between York and his darkness, wherever it is York goes when he drops too low. Then he's useful. Needed. He pushes York into a fall and then catches him, over and over.

When he thinks about it too hard North doesn't like himself, much.

But--

"I'd never let you fall for real," he murmurs, and that's it, that's the thing. It's not about the thrill of York falling, of having the power to make him. It's the fact that he will always, always be there to catch him. Like no one else in York's life ever has been, so much so that York stopped expecting it. Didn't ever learn how to help himself, either, just how to get by on the ground. Sex, drugs. Work. Something to keep him going. Never more than that. Never anything better.

North wants to give him something better. But he knows that's unrealistic. "You can't change people," South had screamed at him, god, so many times. "Stop fucking trying. No one wants that."

But North can't stop trying, because he gives and gives and sometimes York will accept. Will smile. Sometimes York will give _back_.

Like now, even if York doesn't know it. They hardly ever sleep together like this. Neither of them have beds big enough for two people to spend the night comfortably. But York had watched over North's shoulder when he was booking the room, had laughed and grabbed North's hand over the mouse when he paused over the bed options. ( _Queen, dude, get the queen! Fucking double singles, what is this, sleepaway camp?_ )

York's holding onto him now like he has no interest in the extra space. North runs a hand up his back, pulls him a little closer. Just because.

York's breath on his neck is slow and warm. His muscles are relaxed under North's hands. It worked.

So to hell with what Dr. Emily Grey thinks, North figures.

* * *

 

 

York wakes up with his eyes gummy and his mouth dry, and something stuck to his face. It shifts when he yawns, rubbing his cheek into the pillow.

He opens his eyes to darkness. Bats at it clumsily, and there we go. The thing slides up past his forehead and into his hair. He feels-- weird. Kind of... springy. But also like he's underwater, or something. The sound of the sheets moving isn't right; it's all echo-ey and bass like it's coming from inside his own brain, resonating in his skull.

Oh. He has a vague memory of North doing something to his ears, that weirdo. Earplugs. York pulls them out with pinched fingers, leaves them on the pillow. There's earwax on the end of one of them, so that's pleasant.

Also he really, really has to piss. He's off the bed and heading in the direction of the stairs before he realizes that there are no stairs and he's walked himself nearly into an armchair, and that both of these facts are because he's not at home. He's in a hotel.

Explains why the damn bed was so high off the floor.

The bathroom is in the other direction. The door is closed. York slumps against it desperately. "North. Bro. I gotta pee."

"Sec." The door opens under him, and North's highly trained reflexes save him from spilling onto the floor. He does get a smear of toothpaste on himself, though. Oops. "Jesus. Was that necessary?"

York hurries over to the toilet and lifts the seat up with his foot. He sighs loudly. Phew. "Yes. Very." He wipes the glob of toothpaste off his chest with a thumb, flicks it into the toilet bowl.

There's the hiss of the sink running, and North reloading his toothbrush for a second attempt at oral hygiene. "Uh huh. Well you'd better hurry up, or we'll miss the free breakfast. The one with real coffee."

York rolls his eyes. "Dude. It's from 6 to 9. We're fine."

"It's 8:40," North informs him, around the toothbrush.

"It is _not_."

North just raises his eyebrows. Taps at his watch, and then holds it out.

"Well fuck me," York mumbles, and frowns. "What the hell?" Normally he's up at 3 or so, and then again at 6 if he can get back to sleep, which he can't always. No wonder he had to pee so badly.

"You slept well." North spits into the sink. "Right? How do you feel?"

"Like time has rearranged itself," York grumbles, reaching past him for his own toothbrush and wetting it before stumbling out the door towards his bag. Clothing. Coffee. Hurry. Coffee. "Like I'm in an alternate fucking dimension--"

"Good?" North's leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. He looks-- calculating.

York pulls on his socks, brushing furiously between motions. "Yeah. You should stay at my place more. Guess I sleep better."

"That's flattering, but--"

York stares over his shoulder at him. Zips up his fly one-handed.

"The earplugs?" North presses, pointing at his own ears. "The face mask?"

Oh.

"Maybe," York mumbles, glancing over at said items lying on the pillow. He heads back to the bathroom to spit, shrugging past North. "But. Earwax."

"You wash them," North says, dryly. "That's one of the realities of the human body, York. We sec--"

"Do not use the word 'secrete'," York orders with a shudder, and rinses his mouth out by angling his head under the tap. There's glasses on the counter, but. Coffee. He's in a hurry.

"Produce, then." 

North hands him a clean shirt. York yanks it on over his head and gazes miserably at his reflection. His hair is a disaster. He rubs his hands over it a few times so the disaster is at least evenly distributed. "Okay, just. Coffee?"

North snorts lightly. "Breakfast. Don't forget your key card."

"Uhh--" York is already halfway out the door and he has... no idea where that is. Or what room they're in, now that he thinks about it. He peeks out into the hall at the placard. 8-024. Oh.

North's right behind him, coaxing him out. "Never mind. I got it."

"I'm really awake," York muses, when they're in the slowly descending elevator.

"Uh huh," North says, with obviously feigned disinterest.

"Today feels good. I like today."

"Imagine that."

"You're gonna tell me you told me so," York accuses him.

"I am not."

"Liar."

The elevator dings at the first floor. The lobby is full of people milling about, many of them carrying lidded paper cups. York zeroes in on them with laser precision. Most people with cups are coming out of the big room to the left. Simple deduction. He veers leftward. North's following him. Probably. He hopes.

"I got us some fruit for later," North says, when York (double-fisting paper cups of sweet, sweet caffeine, and carrying a toasted bagel in his mouth) sits down next to him at one of the open tables.

It's a corner table. North almost always picks corners to sit in, but he'll leave the actual corner seat open for York. It's one of those things York never noticed until Dr. Grey pointed it out, that time North came to a session with him. Apparently it's normally the other way around, with combat veterans. North should want to see the whole room. But instead he lets York have that seat, and he angles his own chair outwards a little, so he can keep an eye on York and the room at the same time.

("What do you think that means?" Dr. Grey had asked him, and fuck if York knows. He didn't know that it had to mean anything.)

"Fruit?" York pops the lid off his first cup and takes a swallow.

North reaches down into the pockets of his coat and reveals two apples and an orange. "Yeah. So you don't have to leave the booth for snacks if you don't want to. And I can go out and get lunch, and bring it back."

"Um, okay?" York swallows a bite of bagel. "If that's what you want?"

North eyes him over his oatmeal.

"What?"

"I thought you might rather stay at the booth. Less running around. Less noise."

York shrugs. "It's just as noisy at the booth as anywhere else. I'm okay, I think."

North slips the fruit back into his pockets. "All right."

"I'll take the orange, though." York reaches across the table, makes a 'gimme' gesture. North sets the fruit in his open palm. "Fuckin' love oranges."

North laughs "I know. And yet you never buy any."

"Eh." York rolls the orange against the table. "It would kind of ruin the specialness, you know?"

North's brow furrows. "No, I don't."

"Well see, it's like a surprise." York twists his wrist, holds the orange up on his fingertips like it's a golden apple. Something precious. "An orange appears occasionally, and you're happy about it. You eat it real slow and smell it, and shit. But you have a bag of them at home, you forget about them. They rot."

"I'd eat your extra oranges," North says, with raised eyebrows.

"Eh, you're not around enough." York brings the fruit up to his face, smells the rind where his fingernails have scraped, spraying tiny particles of concentrated orangey-ness. "Plus it's, well. The surprise thing. Like if you have no expectations, right, anything good that happens is exciting and you appreciate it a lot; anything bad that happens is unsurprising. Neutral. But if you expect _good_ things to happen, and good things happen, then _that's_ neutral. And if bad things happen you're disappointed. No expectations, that means more happiness."

"No oranges at home means more happiness?"

"Yeah bro, it's basic utility."

North shakes his head. "That’s the most depressing world-view I have ever heard."

York snorts. "Yeah, no. There's straight-up pessimism, for one. Or nihilism. This is just rational."

"Do you have bad expectations for your friends, then? For me?" North's full on frowning, now.

"Huh?"

"Do you expect me to let you down?" Frowning, yeah. And his face is getting red. York doesn't think it's because the oatmeal is too hot.

"No, I mean. Not you, specifically, in the every day."

"What do you mean, then?"

"I mean--"

"Because it sounds like you mean you're waiting for me to abandon you, or let you down, or-- or tell you I told you so, which I _didn't_ \--"

"Woah, hey, okay." York holds his hands up reflexively, and the orange falls into his lap.

North shuts his mouth with an audible click. His lips are pursed tightly.

"I'm just spitballing, okay? I say shit, it's conceptual. I don't mean it personally. You know?"

"No," North says, quieter. "I don't know."

"It's just an idea. Like--" York scans the room, the table, trying to find an example. "Like my triangle, right? It's a mass center fractal, so it subdivides and subdivides, but always by finding the same point, the centroid, the same way. It's just an equation. It works the same every time and it's logical, it's infinite, but it's not infinite in all directions, which I know doesn't make sense but-- it's never gonna be a picture of the whole world."

North's just staring at him, which means York isn't doing so good with this whole explaining thing. Actually, he's staring at York's hands, because he's making shapes with them. Oops. York folds them around his second cup. Warm. He laces his fingers tightly. Shapes. A lattice.

"It's, you know. A model. It's just a way of representing the world that's visible, predictable. So you can work with it the way you can't work with the whole world, which is too big and too much of it is unknowable."

He's rambling. He knows he's rambling. North's starting to get that glazed look.

"But in a model, there's not people as individuals, with pasts or behaviors or contexts or any of that, it's all flattened into one universal idea of a person. You know, a thinking subject. But not you as you. Or even me as me, even though I'm the subject."

" _You're_ the subject," North repeats, with raised eyebrows and a little quirk to his mouth that York only picks up because he's really desperate to not drive himself head on into a ditch, here.

"Well for me, yeah. I can't escape that, no one can. And for you, you're the subject."

"So what am I for _you_ , then?" North leans in on his elbows.

York bites back an utterly reflexive caveat about solipsism, because North is doing that thing where he's talking real slowly and carefully, which usually means he wants York to engage with him on some level other than the one York is currently inhabiting. Like with emotions, or something. And York's trying to get better at that. He really is.

So in an emotional sense, who is North for him? The same person he's always been, really. York chews at his bottom lip. "You're my best friend. And you're-- you're part of that whole world." A big part. "That's all I mean."

It must be the right answer, because North's shoulders relax and that wry little quirk softens into a genuine smile. York allows himself an internal sigh of relief. "All right. Thank you for explaining."

York's pretty sure North didn't understand most of that, but it's beside the point. York doesn't understand himself half the time, either. "Sure. And you can, uh. You can eat my extra oranges."

"I thought you didn't buy oranges for yourself." North folds his arms across his chest. "Because of infinite triangles and utility."

"I don't. But I mean, I might." York shrugs, scoops the orange out of his lap. "If you wanted to come over more often. Make sure they don't rot."

North's smile widens.

"Fruit's expensive," York says, which is what he should have said in the first place.

North shakes his head, and then jerks his chin at the door. "We should get going."

York realizes that the room is mostly empty. There's kitchen staff packing up the chafers of home fries and eggs. He's not entirely sure when that happened. He's not usually this chatty or thinky early in the morning. But it _is_ after 9. "I-- yeah."

He finishes the bagel on the walk though the lobby and down to the corner, where a line of cabs are idling, ejecting passengers and luggage onto the sidewalk. Speaking of expensive. He planned for this trip but it still feels like he's bleeding money, even if he more than makes up for it with new clients.

North's already struck up a conversation with the family waiting with a giant pile of bags on the curb. York chews contemplatively, sips his cooling coffee. They're normals. Not here for the convention. They've got kids. One of said kids is crying. It doesn't bother York as much as it did last night, but they're outside. The sound dissipates easier. And it's sunny, and he has an orange, and he feels pretty good, all told.

North reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a shiny green apple. Offers it to the mother. She takes it. Smiles. Hands it off to the kid, who stops crying for just long enough to throw it forcefully down onto the concrete, where it splits on one side.

York manages not to choke on his coffee, but only just. A free cab pulls up next to him, and the driver rolls the passenger side window down.

"Where to?" he shouts.

York just points over at the mess of children and fruit pulp. "Them first."

North helps them load their luggage, of course. The father looks flustered, but at least there's no more wailing. The two kids pile into the back seat. York finishes off the coffee, crumples the paper cup into a ball.

"Stop laughing," North chides, as the cab rumbles off. He kneels down to pick up the sticky apple.

"I'm not laughing." York grins. "That was a major burn, though, man. Re-jec-tion."

North shrugs. "I thought she was hungry."

"That was your apple," York informs him. "But since I'm such a nice guy, I'm gonna let you have mine."

"How generous of you." North reaches over to take the crumpled cup from York's hand, and tosses both it and the apple into the trash can on the curb.

They end up waiting an extra twenty minutes, because the next cab peels off without anyone in it, and immediately after that an old lady comes out of the lobby with her hand raised to hail one, and North reaches over to push York's hand down preemptively. So off goes the third, and last, empty cab into the distance.

York's not even really bothered. He doesn't know why. Everything just feels-- manageable, somehow.

"You were right," he admits. "About the sleep thing."

"Hmm." North hums into York's hair, loops arms around his waist from behind. York leans back into him, eyes closed. There's sun on his face. It's nice. Energizing, almost, instead of annoying. "Could just be the nice hotel bed. Instead of your futon."

"Nah." York doesn't think so. At least, not entirely. He rests a hand on North's wrist and wiggles his fingers under the cuff of the jacket, smooths them over the splash of watercolor blood. That family probably wouldn't have been so friendly with North, if they saw his tattoos. Or maybe they would have been. York doesn't know. There's so much he doesn't know. Uncertainty.

"You can--" North swallows behind him, right by York's ear. "You can have expectations of me, you know. I won't let you down. Even if you're used to that happening. I haven't yet, have I?"

He hasn't. York squeezes the wrist. "Yeah. I mean no, you haven't."

"So it's, what would you call it? You can reasonably expect I won't, since I haven't yet."

York smiles. "I'd call that some kinda cognitive bias."

"I won't," North mumbles, into his hair. "I haven't, and I won't. I promise."

It's not a thing North can promise, logically. So it's not a thing that York can believe. But North believes it. And like anything North believes, he'll try to make reality conform to it. He'll try so hard to never let York down, whatever that means.

And York can believe that, more or less. He leans back harder, letting North take his weight. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, okay."

North kisses the back of his neck.

"I don't think a cab is coming," York complains. "It's been twenty minutes."

"Cognitive bias," North rumbles, and nips lightly at his shoulder. "Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it isn't coming."

"That's not what that--" York protests, but North's laughing as, sure enough, a taxi turns the corner and pulls up at the curb.

"See? Reasonable expectations based on past results. Hi." North unwinds their arms and steps up to the window, waving at the driver. "Could we get to the convention center? Great, thanks." He pulls the back door open, gestures for York to get in.

York does so, buckling the seat belt and slumping down, sliding his hands into his pockets. Change jangles under his fingers-- he feels out the ridged edges of a dime among the pennies, the smooth curve of a nickel. His keys are in there, one two three four. Apartment, studio, back studio, bike lock. Huh. Must have left his lighter in the room.

North's chatting with the driver, something banal about the weather, and traveling with kids. His nephew, movies. He sounds happy. North likes people. Likes meeting them, learning about their lives.

York rolls the window down and lets the sun and the wind move over his face, warm and cool, soft and loud. Thinks about probability, about belief. There's got to be a model of it, a visualization.

His hand closes around the orange, heavy and round.

He'll start with a sphere, he thinks, and go from there.


End file.
